Hold Your Hand
by Kalexico
Summary: Santana Lopez hasn't seen Brittany Pierce in eight years when suddenly, the possibility of running into her becomes very real. Will they meet again? FEMSLASH. Brittana, Quinndependence on the side. Rated K  for language.


**A/N: I've been thinking about this one for a while, trying to figure out how to write it. The first two or three chapters or so will be Santana-centered, but Brittany joins soon enough. As much as I enjoy writing Quinntana, Brittana remains my endgame. This will be Brittana and Quinndependence on the side. I hope you enjoy it!**

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><p>Santana Lopez didn't thank the taxi driver who dropped her off in front of her apartment building. She only made a note to herself not to mention her exact address to taxi drivers that late at night again, but instead have them drop her off at her block. Or in the vicinity of it. This one had looked particularly gross and creepy.<p>

She fumbled with her keys, cursing under her breath. Her head was throbbing and she was too tired to think. Finally, the key slid inside the lock and she turned it, opening the door. She took the stairs, not very eager to take the elevator this late at night. When she arrived on her floor, she tried to find the right key to her apartment. It took her forever. She was just so damn _exhausted. _

Her flat was abandoned and dark as always. She stumbled into the living room, dropping her purse on the floor and sitting down on the couch. She buried her face in her hands, trying to block out everything. Trying to block out the emptiness.

She reminded herself that it was all for the job. She was Santana Lopez and no matter what she did, she wanted to be the best. A too large part of her high school career had been spent as second-in-command to Quinn Fabray. The fact that said Quinn Fabray was now her photographer/assistant was a small consolation and she would never let a chance pass to tease her about it.

She wriggled her high heels from her feet as she thought back to the way she had spent the better part of the evening. Anyone who knew Santana as a teenager wouldn't be surprised at her actions and describe them as typical for the girl. She sometimes wondered how it was that ten years later, so little had changed. How it was that even after eight years of not having seen Brittany Pierce, the girl was still the love of her life, the one she dreamt about at night, the one that still had all of her.

She didn't feel that she had a choice but to do what she did. She tried not to think of what Brittany would say if she knew, about the look in those magnificent blue eyes. Santana wrote the tears in her eyes off to the alcohol in her blood.

She tried to remember his name, which was actually kind of important. She scrolled through her phone to see her last text messages – yes, that was the one, Patrick Reynolds. She rolled her eyes – he was not even half decent. But he was a rich source of information and that was vitally important to her as a journalist who wanted to make it. If he wouldn't be useful, she'd hate him for being such a fucking snitch. Well, scratch that, she _did_ hate him. She couldn't stand his kind, they stank of betrayal, but she couldn't deny that for her job they were ideal.

She stretched and retreated to her bedroom. She went through her nightly routine and sighed in relief when her head hit the pillow. Sleep came easily, and so did dreams about Brittany. Brittany's laugh, her voice, her eyes, her hugs, her love, her enthusiasm, her naiveté that others called stupidity (but really they were the stupid ones for not seeing that in the end, Brittany was ten times the good person they were). Her sometimes surprisingly wise words and strong stance. Her purity. Her love for life, her insane body. Inevitably, the look of hurt on her face when Santana told her she couldn't, not yet. The blind trust in those same bright blue eyes when Santana said _"Soon, I promise. We can be together soon."_ And when by the end of senior year, they still weren't. That look on Brittany's face when they said goodbye and promised to call. The way her heart still broke just _thinking_ about it. How sick she felt for not answering Brittany's calls.

How sick she felt for sleeping with people like Patrick Reynolds, just to get the information she needed to beat Carter Johnson to the scoop and be praised by her boss without getting anything for it but a pat on the back while she was absolutely damn sure that if Carter Johnson had managed the same thing, he would've been promoted a trillion times already. He would be writing his own fucking book.

Carter didn't need to drink to forget that Patrick was gross. He didn't need to deal with the hangovers that came along with it. He didn't need to deal with that dirty feeling that she was no better than a whore, in fact even worse because she got so little in return. But she knew herself. She knew that if she didn't push those boundaries, she'd blame herself for being stuck in the same spot.

The following morning, she went through her routine again. Have a shower, get dressed, eat an apple, grab a coffee on the way to work, first stop: boss' office. Mr Neil welcoming her, asking her questions she automatically fired answers to. Mr Neil updating her on tasks.

"Met anyone interesting lately?" Mr Neil asked casually as she was about to leave the office. She turned around, confused. This wasn't part of the routine.

"Well, yes. I was actually just going to use that person's information to finish up that article about the... affairs of Kenneth Harris. I'll e-mail it to you as soon as I'm finished."

Mr Neil smiled cryptically. "Very good. I'll see you around."

"Okay?" Santana said hesitantly before leaving the office. As she sat down behind her desk, she thanked God that her body had gotten used to hangovers and that she had found various ways to cure them by now. At least she'd be able to get this done and file Patrick away until the next time she needed him – hopefully not any time soon.

She looked up when someone sat themselves down on the corner of her desk. Her eyes met Quinn Fabray's. "You look like shit," Quinn announced.

Santana rolled her eyes. "Thanks."

"Don't worry, though. I only see it because I know you."

"You _think_ you know me." Even though they were kind of friends now, Santana still didn't let her in too much. She hadn't let anyone in since Brittany Pierce.

"Whatever, Lopez. Did it work out last night?"

Santana looked away. "I got what I needed. Don't you have anyone else to stalk?"

"Get over yourself," Quinn huffed jokingly. If anything, she was used to Santana's antics by now. She hopped off the desk and went to her own, busying herself with whatever it was that photographers busied themselves with. The assistant part was not official, but in reality, it often came down to Quinn helping Santana out with some practicalities that the black-haired woman could never muster to focus on when she was caught up in a story. The only reason this unconventional assistance was tolerated was because Santana Lopez was just that good at her job and the paper didn't want to lose her. _Instead of giving me a fucking promotion already, then they could rest assured that I'd stay._

She hid in the bathrooms when lunchtime came near, not wanting to spend it with anyone. Some colleagues stopped by to ask some questions, she answered them, they left. Just how she liked it – no personal, deep friendships in case one of them had to leave and she'd have to say goodbye again.

She finished the article she had been working on for quite some time now. It took her the remainder of the day to make sure that everything was solid, to erase typos, to update with the latest details. She flexed her body when she was finally ready and mailed the document to Mr Neil.

About an hour after she had sent the document, Santana received a call from Mr. Neil that he wished to see her. She felt nervous – this never happened. A job well done would always earn her some lame e-mail and personal congratulations the following morning.

She manned up and held her head high as she entered the office.

"Sit down", Mr Neil motioned to the vacant chair in front of his desk. Santana followed the orders. "I've read your article, Santana. Very well done. Actually, this is the next success in a long line of good articles. That's why we want to reward you."

Santana's mouth went dry. _He can't mean... no. Not after all this time. Don't get your hopes up, he doesn't even know what you want._

"Thank you," Santana said, hating the fact that her voice sounded hoarse.

"We've heard through the grapevine that you want to write a book."

Santana's heart thumped in her chest. "Yes, that is one of my goals in life."

"This is something I have been contemplating for a long time, Santana. I've spoken with some important people here at the firm, the ones that matter, and they agree. In this world today, we have to stand out if we want to make it. All those stories about fraud and sexual escapades are interesting, but not new. Now, we have noticed the sad increase in teenage suicides and we decided to look into it. Teenage suicide is an important topic, and also one that lives with our readers. So many of them have teenage sons and daughters. You have probably heard about this, but another teenage suicide has taken place recently. Jessica Hensen from Lima, Ohio. The girl who was captain for her cheerleading team and committed suicide because of the fact that she felt uncomfortable about coming out as a lesbian. Who committed suicide because rumours were being spread and everything was starting to shatter for her. You are familiar with her story?"

"Y-yes," Santana stuttered. She was all too familiar. She was freaking obsessed. So much of it reminded her of her own situation, and it was in her freaking hometown! At McKinley High no less. "The girl attended my old high school."

"Yes," Mr Neil responded, still looking very serious. "I must admit that that fact has a lot to do with my offer. The company wants you to write a book about teenage suicide with this story as the general story throughout the book. Based on this book, you will also write a series of articles. Excerpts will be published in the paper. We want you to get to the bottom of it. We will need you to return to Lima and reside there for as long as you work on the book. If I remember well, you are single and have no parental obligations?"

"That's true."

"Nor does Quinn Fabray?"

"No."

"Excellent. She will join you and assist you."

"So, let me get this clear. I can write a book?"

Mr Neil smiled for the first time. "You can write a book. If we are content with your work, you will be promoted."

Santana couldn't believe it. Everything she had worked for so hard was suddenly becoming reality. She was almost too scared to believe it. She expected Mr Neil to tell her he was joking any second now. He remained serious and she could barely contain her excitement.

"Thank you so much, Mr Neil," she said. "This honestly means so much to me. Thank you for the opportunity. I won't let you down."

"I'm glad that you are taking this offer, Santana. You've deserved it and I'm sure you'll do well."

Santana nearly skipped out of the office, back to her desk. Of course she felt sad about the situation for the parents of this girl, her family and her friends, but this was her big shot at making it.

She gathered her things with a huge grin on her face, only noticing Quinn's worried look after a few minutes. Quinn stood up and placed her hand on Santana's brow. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You've been grumpy all day," Quinn pointed out. "In fact, you've been grumpy for years."

Santana told Quinn the good news. It was only as she recounted her meeting with Mr Neil when it dawned on her. Her excitement died down and was replaced with nervosity. _Going back to Lima... what if Brittany is there?_


End file.
